


i would lose my pride for you

by armyofbees



Series: over time without a break [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, It's Not Great, James Madison Sr.'s A+ Parenting, Lots of Tea, M/M, Metaphors, Pining, Tea, Underage Drinking, and whiskey, as always, but also sort of an enabler, hercules is team mom, nelly is a good sister, oh yeah and even more references to jeremy messersmith, these tags make it seem a lot more lighthearted than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: He pretends he’s made of ice. He pretends he doesn’t care. He pretends he’s not aching to just hear his voice again. And, God, he’s done for, because it’s only been three days, but he really doesn’t care about that right now. Right now, there’s a hole where his heart should be and he’s just pretending it doesn’t exist, because acknowledging it would mean dealing with it, and he can’t.--James' fire has gone out, but he doesn't know how to breathe through frozen lungs. He wants to burn.





	i would lose my pride for you

**Author's Note:**

> As always, just be careful! There are lots of bad themes in this series. Title is from [Dead End Job](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afVS8gXwJfM) by Jeremy Messersmith, and there are also references to [Organ Donor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9MdFgDoj8Y), which is by him as well. Enjoy!

The fire has long since died and the ash has settled on his skin. He is gray. He is a shell, cast from the ash of Pompeii, cast from the volcano erupting inside himself. It’s a crater now, a _shell_ of what had been. He should stop making jokes about this—he doesn’t think it’s funny.

His blanket mountain has been thrown haphazardly about the room, and the window cracked open—the burning ended up being too much for him. It’s because he’s too weak for it, he knows, and he has half a mind to set everything ablaze.

He doesn’t. At least, not yet. He does light the stove, and pours some water into the kettle. He stands, watching the fire dance beneath the kettle, long after it has whistled.

“James?” someone says, and he turns. In the doorway of the kitchen stands Nelly, complete in pajamas and fuzzy socks. He nods dazedly, thoughts still stuck on the fire. On how pretty it is. On how nice it would look on him. On how nice it would be to burn. “The kettle’s been going for a while now,” Nelly says.

She shuffles over and turns off the stove, pours some water into his mug, finds a teabag.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she says, and reaches up to open a cabinet. “It won’t be on me if Dad wakes up.”

He purses his lips and nods, watches as she pours a shot of whiskey into his tea. He doesn’t argue.

“So, how are you?” she asks as she stirs the cup. She takes a sip, coughs a little, and hands it to him.

He takes a long drink before responding, relishing in the way the whiskey feels on the back of his throat. Coupled with the boiling water, it’s positively searing. “Fine,” he says.

She scoffs. “Sure, yeah, and Francis isn’t a total dick. Come on, James.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m just tired.” He wants to say that his fire’s gone out, but he knows she wouldn’t understand, so he keeps quiet.

She quirks an eyebrow and shrugs. “Maybe you shouldn’t be making tea at two in the morning on a school night, then. Get some sleep.”

“I would,” he says wistfully. The whiskey is pooling in his stomach, and it doesn’t feel like fire, not quite. It feels like a soft, warm glow. He doesn’t want it. He wants to burn. He wants to char.

“You should go,” Nelly says softly, gently. Like he’s a candle and if she speaks too loud, he’ll go out. Like he isn’t—wasn’t—a forest fire. “You missed Tuesday already.”

He shrugs. “I know.”

“This is about Thomas,” she says, and it’s not a question. He can’t do anything but nod, and it’s pathetic. He’s pathetic, but he can’t find his words, so he’ll just have to bear it. “Listen, James.” He takes a pull of tea. “It sucks, but you know how Dad is about these things. You can’t really do anything about it. It’s terrible advice but… just try to power through it.”

“’S what I’ve been doing,” James says, and pushes past her. He thinks he should be burning so bright that he might set her alight. He thinks he should burn the house down. He doesn’t think he would warn his family if he did. But he’s a shell, and the house is cold and silent. “Night, Nelly.”

“Night, James,” she says, and hoists herself up onto the counter.

 

* * *

 

Aaron Burr has never been one for conversation, and for once, James is glad. He doesn’t want to answer any more questions about the homework or about his cough or about what goddamned kind of tea he’s drinking.

They’re sitting together in English when Thomas comes in. Aaron’s been reading for the past few minutes, and James has been forgetting as much as he can with his mixture of tea and whiskey, again thanks to Nelly. He would much rather be burning, of course. He would much rather be leaving scars on everything he touches. He would much rather go out in flames. But he’ll settle for what he can get, so he’s content with the whiskey. Well, tries to be.

Aaron raises a hand to Thomas. James can feel Thomas’ gaze land on them. He doesn’t look up. He pretends he’s made of ice. He pretends he doesn’t care. He pretends he’s not aching to just hear his voice again. And, _God,_ he’s done for, because it’s only been three days, but he really doesn’t care about that right now. Right now, there’s a hole where his heart should be and he’s just pretending it doesn’t exist, because acknowledging it would mean dealing with it, and he _can’t._

“Is something up with him?” Aaron asks, leaning over to James. “He’s sitting in the back. He never sits in the back unless _you_ do.”

James sighs and takes another drink of tea. “I think it’s just family trouble.”

Aaron hums noncommittally, and James ignores the tone of skepticism. He doesn’t look at Thomas.

 

* * *

 

To his surprise, it’s Hercules Mulligan who talks to him first. He’s been expecting someone—he knows he looks worse than normal—just not Hercules. Hercules’ entire friend group has been eyeing him curiously all day, and he knows that at least one of them has picked up on his little wince every time he sips his tea.

He wonders if they can tell that he’s burned out, but he doesn’t think they’d understand. He thinks Thomas would, but, well.

He’s sitting in the courtyard alone at lunch, because Aaron opted to eat with Thomas. It’s cold but the whiskey is warming his fingertips. He tries to settle for it, but he shouldn’t be this chilled. He shouldn’t be freezing. He’s never been made of ice before, and he doesn’t think he wants to be.

Hercules sits carefully next to him and tosses him an apple. He fumbles it. “Not good to drink on an empty stomach.”

James wrinkles his nose a little and says, “Okay, Mom.”

“How much of that have you had?” Hercules asks, tapping on James’ travel mug. James just shrugs. “You alright?”

James shrugs again, and follows it up with, “Probably not.” Probably not, because he’s frozen. Probably not, because he should be on fire. Probably not, because he doesn’t know how to deal with the cold; because he’s never breathed through frozen lungs and never dealt with ice water in his veins.

“Since you’re our reluctant sort-of-friend, can you tell me why?”

James scoffs. “This isn’t a therapy session, Mulligan. I can take care of myself.” He can’t, and Thomas was right, but he’s not about to admit that.

Hercules flinches away, and James’ brow furrows. Hercules recovers quickly, though. “Yeah, but we’re all concerned. I think Alex is mostly curious.”

“Tell Alex that he can ask Thomas about it if he wants,” James says, and he knows he sounds bitter. He keeps talking anyway. “God knows Thomas is simply infatuated.” And he knows he’s said too much, but his skin is clear ice and he can’t really help bearing his heart.

Hercules raises an eyebrow. “Are you and Thomas fighting?”

“No,” James mumbles, and he’s not lying.

“Really?” Hercules asks, and James curls his lip. He’s reminding himself of Thomas, and he hates it. It’s because he’s had too much to drink. It’s because he’s tired. It’s because because because because. It’s because he misses him.

“Yes, really.” James sighs again and waves his mug around vaguely. “It’s—complicated.”

“I’m sure,” Hercules says patiently.

“Just go back to your friends, Mulligan.”

Hercules considers for a moment, then holds out his hand. “Mug.”

“What? No.” James hugs it to his chest. He doesn’t like it, but he’s taking what he can get, and he’s afraid that if he stays frozen, he’ll suffocate. He doesn’t know how to breathe.

“C’mon, man,” Hercules says, and makes a grab for it. James is too tired to really fight back, and he _doesn’t know how to breathe,_ so Hercules ends up with it thrust victoriously in the air. “Just… take care of yourself.”

James nods wordlessly. He doesn’t think he remembers how to speak, either. He watches as Hercules sits back down next to Laurens and Alexander, watches as they talk and laugh and Alexander looks at Laurens like he put the goddamned stars in the sky.

James thinks he hates them, but he’s not sure that he can. He thinks he hates that they’re everything he should be. He thinks he hates that they’re free to be whatever they are, and here he is. Cold. He thinks he hates that they’re on fire and he’s not. But he doesn’t hate them.

Nobody else tries to talk to him that day.

 

* * *

 

The house is silent when he gets home. It’s always silent. Sometimes it’s almost comforting, but now he just longs for something— _anything_ —more than silence. He’s had too much quiet today.

He’s ready to scream and shout and pour his heart out, but his family doesn’t really care and he can’t talk to Thomas. He wishes he didn’t _want_ to talk to Thomas, but he knows that’s far beyond his control.

The effects of the tea have long since worn off, and he doesn’t feel like making himself more. He stands in the foyer for a moment, and his brain is shutting off. It’s too cold, it’s going to sleep, he’s gone. He’s shaken from the haze as the door is thrown open behind him.

“James?” he hears Nelly asks, and he turns slowly. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

She purses her lips and raises an eyebrow. “Was the whiskey really that strong?”

He holds out his hands. “It was _confiscated.”_ He lets the word roll off his tongue, like it’s something viscous and half-frozen and bitter.

She snorts and toes off her shoes. “You look like you need biscuits.” She takes his hand and leads him into the kitchen.

“Biscuits?” he asks, even as he sits down at the table.

“Biscuits,” she agrees, and pulls out the mix. “No whiskey, I promise.”

He gives her a small smile and doesn’t tell her that he could do with some. They eat in silence.

Afterward, he goes to his room and collapses. He’s not really cold anymore. He’s not really anything anymore. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep doing this, because it’s only been two days and he already misses Thomas more than he’d like to admit. _Just power through._

“Yeah, right,” he says aloud, and heaves a sigh. His lungs creak and crackle, but they haven’t fallen apart yet, and he thinks that maybe he’ll be able to hold out. He’s missing a few parts, a little like a broken toy. But the rest of him’s still in one piece, and he hopes that’s good enough.


End file.
